Mask
by Harmonic Friction
Summary: Sometimes Mirage and Syndrome have arguments that pretend they're not arguments. Kind of fluffy. Syn POV.


**Mask**

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"You've hardly touched your sashimi," I declared, watching Mirage shuffle about with her black chopsticks. "You know, I went out of _my _way to make a decent meal, a _romantic _meal—"

She snorted with a little grin. "You didn't _make _this," she replied smoothly. "You _purchased _it."

"Yeah, but I _made _the miso. And the tea!"

"That's really impressive!" she exclaimed derisively.

"I put out _candles_!" I snapped. "Come on, aren't candles the element that makes a dinner romantic?"

Mirage straightened her back and pursed her lips. "_Romance _is what makes a dinner romantic, Syndrome."

"Oh," I said shortly. "Well, next time I go to the supermarket, I'll be certain to pick some up."

She sighed, swinging one leg to the other side. "Ha," she stated in a bland tone, poking at her tuna roll.

"Hey, _hey," _I exclaimed," what's your deal? I've been _busy_, and besides, it was you who said we needed some time, right?"

"It isn't that. Just, you know, Syndrome, you pride yourself in being well-taught. You love _details _and I've given them to you—my parents, my first job, even my _dress size_! You know everything about everyone, but I know absolutely _nothing _about _you_!"

I felt, for a second, as though I was sinking. "That isn't true! Come _on, _Mirage! You know the reasons behind my plan, you know why I shed my former identity—what more is there to _know_?"

She set her chopsticks down. "I want to know about why you are so unhappy. I want to know why you put up walls. I want to know about Buddy Pine."

"No."

"Why—"

"Because those days are _dead, _Mirage! It's the future that matters, it's—"

"_I've heard that speech before!" _she cried out tersely, shaking her mane of silver hair. "Honestly! Do you _practice _these orations when no one's watching? Is that what you do? Because if that's the truth, I feel like you just slapped me in the face! **I'm not everybody else!**" she finished, her tone a shrill shout.

"I know, heh, you're Mirage—"

"Oh, _please _don't try to be funny right now, Syndrome."

"I'm not—"

"**TELL ME SOMETHING YOU'VE NEVER SAID! I DON'T WANT A RECYCLED MONOLOUGE!"**

My eyes shifted nervously. "Not everything I say is practiced," I told her calmly, but I was a bit shook up. Mirage is _the _most collected woman on planet earth, which is not an exaggeration. The fact that she was screaming at me was slightly terrifying.

Our arguments are usually arguments that don't think they are arguments. They hide within snappy dialogue, they're witty, and they end with one of us walking away, but they don't know they're arguments.

"Prove it." Her eyes were darkening.

This was most definitely an argument that knew it was an argument.

"I—uh… I…"

"_Here,_" she spat, "let me help you. **High school**," she barked.

"Excuse me?"

"Have you suddenly become deaf? **HIGH SCHOOL.**"

"Are we playing the Random Word game, or something, heh, because frankly—"

"We aren't playing _any _game. That's the _point_. Now _answer."_

I raised my eyebrow, feeling a deep flush in my cheeks. Mirage had always let me keep a sort of secret identity. I'd fed her snippets of my old lives, and she'd seemed content. It was in this instant that I realized she'd never been. She'd only been patient.

"You aren't going to like it," was what I started with, hoping she'd forget all of it and take us back to how it was before.

She said nothing. She stared.

Trying to prolong my time, I took a sip of green tea and didn't look at her. Finally, I spoke, staring at the wall: "You want to know about high school? About how it was? Okay, sure. I'll tell you. I wasn't well-liked, that's for certain. You know the annoying neighbor kid on television sitcoms? That was me. No one was interested in what I was saying, but I just kept talking. If I had been sought out by bullies, beaten up, maybe there would have been some excitement, but the truth is, no one really cared. I had ideas, and they were _awesome_, but no one cared. They pegged me as the nerd who would get rich, and they weren't interested."

Mirage squirmed a little in her chair. I could tell that my tone of voice was clearly causing her great discomfort.

"You wouldn't have liked me if you'd have known me then, all right? I wasn't wealthy yet, I was just sort of hyped up about my ideas and alone a lot. You would have been one of the girls who just laughed."

"No, I wouldn't have," she interjected, her eyebrows squeezing together, her hands squeezed together, everything about her just squeezed, because she knew I was telling the truth.

I sighed. "Don't act like you're some sort of down-to-earth, maternal being, _o-kay_? You would have laughed. I wasn't cool, I wasn't respected, and that's what you like. Oh _man, _if Buddy hadn't have won the Young Inventor's Special Honor award, you would have _never _gotten involved with me. Yeah, but you _ran _to me after that ceremony, didn't you? You looked past my geeky appearance and you saw _money_!"

"Stop it! That isn't the truth! You know I'm attracted to you—"

"That isn't the _point_, Mirage. I was what—nineteen? You were nearly twenty three, and when you saw me, you knew you could get a new position, a _better _job. I was a _ticket, a ploy_ to bring you up to the top where you _so _wanted to be, right? It was just a plus that we started having _sex._ Only then, ya know, I was esteemed. I was powerful, I had goons, a beautiful resort… I was _Syndrome."_

"No, _no! _That isn't why—I mean, certainly, I thought you were intellectual and I thought you were innovative! Yes, I wanted to work beside you, but—I—_loved _you, too and you know that! You're being unfair, and furthermore, this sounds _practiced _to me!"

"**So what?** So what if I've all ready planned out how to handle you when you decide you're too good for me!" I stopped talking, and winced. I had definitely said too much.

Her stony green glare softened. "You think I'm leaving?

"Naw."

"You think I'm leaving," she stated softly.

Silently, she stood up, running her slim hands down the front of her dress, one of the things she did when she wasn't quite sure what to say. She walked the length of the table, the sound of her high heels, as always, reminding me of a cat's footfalls.

"I don't really want sympathy, Mirage, you can go."

She continued.

"I'm saying that as your employer."

"And I'm saying _no _as your lover."

Mirage bent over, nearly folding herself into because she's so tall and slender, and hugged me around the shoulders. "I'm not leaving, Syndrome. I know you have an abandonment fear and I wouldn't do that to you."

"You've really assessed me, haven't you?"

"More than you've assessed me," she returned, her hands massaging my arms. "Your father died when you were pretty young right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm guessing your mother was either abusive or complacent."

"And _I'm_ guessing we're playing the Random Word game again."

"Maybe."

I turned around and stared at her. "Which answer is going to make you feel more inclined to pity me, which would later lead to us possibly sleeping together?"

Mirage smirked. "_Both."_

"Well, then, now that I can answer honestly, she never said much. In fact, she was kind of like everyone at school."

"Oh, _Syndrome. That must have been awful_," she whispered and kissed me on the cheek. "I've always been a sucker for children," she said.

It was true; she'd told me before. Sometimes we hold serious conversations that disguise themselves as simply Q&A.

Once I asked her the age old question: "Want kids?" because I certainly don't.

"No," she said at once, which made my heartbeat slow to a normal rate," but they're cute and I've always been a sucker for them. You know, if children are harmed, the future is harmed."

How very right she was.

"I didn't question you to hurt you," Mirage told me, and I snapped out of the memory. "I want to know you."

"I understand that now."

Mirage's eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight. "See?" she asked. "You don't _have _to go to the supermarket."

"Huh?"

"You've made romance all on your own."

**fin**


End file.
